


The Paris Interlude

by aristotle_chipotle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Europe, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Making Art as Therapy, Medical Trauma (past), Panic Attacks, Paris (City), Post-Canon, Recovery, found family kinda, it's the fact that two artists can afford a studio apartment in Saint-Georges, my prose gets away from me sometimes, the most unrealistic part isn't the mind heists, this is written like a pretentious 80s European art film i'm so sorry guys, three idiots accidentally become inseperable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:21:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27378640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aristotle_chipotle/pseuds/aristotle_chipotle
Summary: After the Fischer job, Saito is having some trouble re-adjusting to the world. Memories from the dream are haunting him, and distractions aren't working. Desperate to feel comfortable in his newly-young body, he seeks out an old friend who has some experience with changing appearances.After the Fischer job, Ariadne and Eames have to wait a year or so to spend their cuts, just to avoid suspicion. They both pitch in on an apartment in Paris, where Ariadne can finish school and Eames can lay low. As an architecture grad student and a painter, they're having a hard time making ends meet. The last thing they're expecting is a visit from one of the world's wealthiest, or the fact that he's come to THEM for help.
Relationships: Eames/Saito (Inception)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And when I'm awake I can't switch off  
> It isn't the same but it is enough"
> 
>   
> "i saw you in a dream" - The Japanese House

It was the strangest thing, to be a soul in a body that didn't belong to you.

At first, it had been a flood of relief. Euphoria, almost. The sensation of the weight of age shrugged off as easily as one might take off a coat, and all Saito had to do was pull the trigger. He remembered it all. The realization that his world was not his own, and he had trapped himself in his own mind, surrounding himself with comfortable fantasies to trick himself into believing his own lie.

Then there was the certainty, as he had realized the truth he'd buried long ago. Then, the wake-up call, and it was over. In less than a blink of an eye, an entire life had vanished into nothing, blown away like dust. Invented memories faded until they were only a haze, and real ones came flooding back to replace them.

None of it had been real, and it ached like the loss of a friend.

But parting with the memories hadn't been entirely bad, Saito thought. Yes, there were good memories, but there was also pain. Pain so acute he wondered why he hadn't realized the lie sooner. In the haze of an imagined world, what was left of his youth and strength seemed to have vanished quickly. Too quickly. He hadn't questioned it then, but it was terrible and surreal.

He was happy to wake up and lose that pain and the physicality of it, but maybe there was some unease in the transition too. It wasn't that he'd grown comfortable in that body, but it had become his new reality. His identity in the dream was his identity, and everything that came with it, including the relentless signs of age. With waking up came the sudden speeding up of things, and the surprising lack of pain in joints, and ease of movement that brought the euphoria. But lurking at the back of that pleasure was a different kind of sensation, one he'd never felt before.

There were distractions at first. There were things to do and arrangements to make, and his newfound youth was still fresh, leaving him nothing to do but be young and savor it.

Then there were meetings as he fell back into the rhythm of life and work and everything. He began to see familiar faces again, faces he hadn't seen since the false world, and that was when things began to tangle themselves up.

It seemed that, as real memories returned and old ones faded from lack of use, they had intertwined into a confusing mess of truth and lies that didn't give him much to work with. There were people who worked for him, now young as well, who had different stories than the ones he'd come to associate with them in his hallucinations. It started subtle, and he could contribute it to anyone's forgetfulness. An intern's birthday was in June, not October. An associate didn't remember a conference Saito could have sworn they attended in Kyoto.

Then there was that strange lack of pain, and how his associates noticed it in small quirks that a stranger might not have caught. He had to train himself that sitting down and standing weren't difficult things anymore. He had to remember that stairs weren't hard, and driving was possible, and there weren't medications to take. He could leave his house late at night, no longer desperate for the sleep. He could hold delicate things, drinks and such, without fear of dropping them from unsteady hands. All these habits and more had been buried deep in his subconscious, in ways he wasn't even aware of, until they came back and he had to fight to control them.

He thought there should have been a relief in this too. He didn't have to worry about his age anymore. He'd effectively gone back in time. He could live differently if he wanted, and see more, and do more. It should have been peaceful, even.

But then there was the flinch every time he passed a mirrored surface and saw a stranger. For a brief moment, he was an alien in a body that had long since been lost to time. Maybe it was a little bit funny, he thought, or it should have been. But he couldn't bring himself to feel anything but anxiety.

With that anxiety came a hyper-awareness. Time was passing now, passing as it should, and he was passing with it. All the things he'd lived and hated and said goodbye to were merely a projection of a future he had yet to live, and he could feel it on the horizon, creeping steadily closer and closer, taunting him.

It had only been a few months since the Fischer job, so it was impossible, but he could have sworn there were new lines around his eyes.

It might have been the light playing tricks, but he thought his hair looked positively gray sometimes.

But that was impossible.

Besides, nothing felt real. The body wasn't his, and the height wasn't his, and he moved too fast when he walked, and everything was new and strange.

Sometimes, in the morning, he lingered in front of the mirror too long, watching like he expected to see something. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he half anticipated this new life to crumble like the old one. This body was too good to be true. Business was good and he could take vacations to clear his mind and try and think about things other than the recent future.

It was all distractions, and there was always a darkness on the horizon. He wondered how long he'd be able to hold against it.

When he had the time, he found himself wondering about Cobb. The extractor who'd gone through all this and more, and survived, seemingly okay. He'd grown old in his mind--he'd confessed to it--but had there been a recovery period? Had he been an alien too?

 _Maybe I'm thinking to hard about this,_ he thought. _Maybe it's simpler than I'm making it, and I'm playing tricks on myself._

It had only been two months, and enough had happened to keep Saito occupied, but those two months somehow felt like ages and no time at all. It was a harsh jolt into real time with no comfort, like falling hard into icy water.

 _It wasn't real_ , he told himself. _I made it all up, and now it's gone for good_.

But the memories stayed with him, and overwhelmingly the ones he wished he could forget. In the end, if it could even be called that, there was a lot of pain as age caught up with him. He couldn't recall the details anymore, only pictures of what had never really happened. Surgeries in hospitals for conditions he couldn't recall. Then, waking up from those surgeries in a haze of medication that took days to wear off. His agency completely lost in the frenzy of investors and friends to keep him alive. But every treatment only seemed to worsen the pain.

Now that he could look back, he wondered if he really would have died. He doubted the dream would have let him. If Cobb hadn't come back, how much longer would he have been trapped in that downward spiral?

 _Purgatory_ was a word he thought about a lot. _Eternity_ was a word he tried not to think about.

He thought he'd left all the memories behind, but they came back from one glance at a pharmacy, or the sight of an elderly person on the street, bent and crooked. Those triggers that sent him into that inexplicable hyper-awareness where he'd refuse to accept that this, now, was his body. It all felt so strange, almost dream-like, and he vaguely recalled a trick the others had used. There was a way of determining reality from the imaginary, he remembered. A steel top, spinning forever. But it had to be unique, and he didn't have the expertise to know how to use one properly. He was alone, with no mentor for that kind of work, and he didn't want to risk his carefully-built empire to find one.

All the same, he had a similar item ordered. It spun and it fell, but that was little comfort when he wasn't even sure he was doing it right. The thing only brought back bad memories, so it ended up locked in a desk drawer, and he tried to move on from those intrusive thoughts.

_This body is not mine._

It was a strange kind of horror, he thought. To look into a mirror and see your eyes, your soul, but someone else's body.

Maybe it was just something one had to practice and get used to. An interesting practice, the art of being different people and not minding one way or another. Looking into a mirror and seeing another body, maybe even dramatically different, and meeting the alien eyes with the confidence of a person who knows exactly what they're doing.

Interesting, but not impossible. He'd seen it done, and it was hopelessly impressive. Effortless. But that was a dream, and this was reality.

Maybe the thoughts wouldn't go away until he found someone who'd already conquered them. Maybe he'd have to make a few calls and do some detective work, but it could be done. Maybe he needed a teacher.

After all, it was all in his head.


	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Je te laisserai des mots  
> En-dessous de ta porte  
> En-dessous de la lune qui chante"
> 
> "Je Te Laisserai Des Mots" - Patrick Watson

It's not hard to find people if you know where to look, and if you don't know where to look, you can always pay someone who does.

Sometimes people are easy to find, and they follow predictable paths. Sometimes motivation is like that: a straight line, or a trajectory, and a person's personality is the formula you need to calculate where they'll be a few weeks, or even a few years from now. With powerful connections, anyone's whereabouts can be read like a book and exploited. 

There was technology for this, and there were experts who could get Saito the information he needed in moderate secrecy, but he had never used this hidden power on someone who wasn't an enemy. Enemies had to be kept close and monitored heavily, but what about an acquaintance? Someone he'd only known in passing who he hadn't had the time to read and study and completely understand.

Even more difficult was the cloud of caution that hung over everything. He couldn't talk about this to anyone but a few close associates. It was espionage, after all, and it had been, and no one could know.

There were unsaid rules for these kind of jobs, and he'd been well aware of them when he financed the thing.

One was that you didn't ask questions, and for that he was grateful. They hadn't.

Two was that you took the money and moved on. You were supposed to split up from the team and go your own way for a while. It was better not to spend anything for at least a year, or people would notice. As far as he knew, they'd all done so, and the world was none the wiser.

Three was that you didn't go back to find anyone, like he was trying to do.

Normally this was easy enough, and he hadn't even considered it those two months ago. He had memories associated with each of them the same as he did with certain objects or buildings, or places. Elevators. Rain. Sometimes even the noise of traffic, if it got too loud. Why would he have wanted to go back for any of them? They would only bring back the memories.

Then there was the nature of his search. He wasn't sure how to explain it. It was a business transaction, he told himself again and again, but it wasn't one he could bring lawyers to. It wasn't even one he was comfortable sharing with his closest partners. It was embarrassing, this unknown weakness. He wasn't even sure that the plan would work. There was always the possibility that he'd truly lost his mind, and if he went back for help, all he'd get was pity. Or worse, ridicule.

Eames hadn't struck him as the kind of person who ridiculed, but he couldn't quite be sure.

A business transaction without material goods. He wasn't asking for something. He was asking for something to be taken away. It was psychology, which was hard to price. Nothing was definite anymore. It was all guessing.

So he told no one why. He just said a few words, and it was two weeks of silence before any of his contacts had anything. That was unexpected, he thought. Yes, he knew that these people could disappear, but it was hard for someone to hide from him for that long. Money was power, after all.

And when there was news, it was Paris, of all places.

It came as a phone call early in the morning, a weekend when the sky was overcast and the fog hid the mountains on all sides of the city. Everything was gray and stifling and cold, and Saito had just been considering flying somewhere, anywhere, to clear his mind. The call came as a relief, just as the rain and the bad traffic were becoming unbearable.

_Paris. The name you gave, there's someone in Paris who was off the grid a few months ago. It has to be the same Eames._

It was a surprise, Paris. Not because it had been hard to find, but because it had been so easy. The world was a big place, and there were lots of places to hide and wait out a storm. But Paris was crawling with activity. Paris was open and exposed, and the only reason his associates hadn't found it sooner was that no one, no one who really wanted to stay hidden, would dream of going there.

So Eames was either completely stupid, or knew exactly what he was doing.

Saito went over the information late at night, idly flipping through folders. What they'd been able to find out was minimal. The target was living in an apartment, but not alone. The target hadn't traveled in a while. The target hadn't been in contact with anyone else working in extraction, at least not since the Fischer job. The target's movements were seemingly random, like he was trying to evade someone, or he was simply that kind of person.

But he didn't seem to be employed, according to Saito's sources. That was also a relief. Eames wandered Paris, visiting art galleries and cheap tourist restaurants, but not one sign of a steady income. That meant he was available for a new kind of proposition.

All Saito had to do was figure out exactly what it was he wanted to ask, because he wasn't sure.

It was a weird feeling, hovering just on the edge of unease, the realization that since the job, something wasn't right with his mind. Weren't they supposed to move on when it was over? He'd shared dreams before, for training purposes, but they'd just been fractions of a reality that had never presented itself as anything but false. But here was this big chunk of his life that had never really happened, and it was still trying to convince him that he'd lived it. He _had_ lived it, but only in his mind. So why did it feel like he still hadn't woken up?

Maybe Eames would know.

Then there were the flashbacks. Random. Erratic. Not a memory, but a real glimpse that happened as quickly as a bolt of lightning, and could strike him just as powerfully. They'd gone too far. They were interfering with his life in ways he didn't understand yet. He could only remember the times he'd been alone on the elevator at work, only to suddenly feel like it was closing in around him, crushing him. The way he hadn't been able to keep it together, excusing himself at a meeting to seek the privacy of his office and remind himself of his surroundings. The way this new body betrayed him with an occasional memory of the old, screaming at him not to run or use stairs or risk anything out of a gripping terror.

Then there was the thought of Paris.

Traveling was a memory now. He hadn't since that last flight. He occasionally thought about it, especially when the weather was bad, but to get on a plane felt wrong. Dangerous, even. His mind ran wild with impossible fantasies of kidnapping and theft and inescapable dreams. He needed Paris quickly, but Paris was an ocean and a half away no matter which way you went, and anything other than a flight was unnecessarily expensive and slow. Besides, by the time he arrived, his target might have moved on, and it was essential that he get this over with as quickly as possible.

And after that, then what? Assuming he survived a flight to Paris without any significant negative impact, there was the landing, and the aftermath. There was going to the apartment of a complete stranger and confessing your inability to take care of yourself, or keep to the same standard as a handful of other people who shared your experiences. There was admitting you'd failed, and it was pathetic to imagine.

Eames wasn't a complete stranger, but damn near close. They'd spoken a few words, but now that he thought about it, they hadn't said much of anything. They hadn't needed to. When they were so far down, and everything was happening so quickly, there wasn't much time to speak. Saito had never felt a need to speak, because he had always had this eerie feeling that Eames already knew exactly what he was going to say.

Maybe there wasn't any point in going to Paris. No, it was stupid, he told himself. It was stupid to assume that after all this time, he could just insert himself on people's lives again like he owned them. 

He swayed back and forth on the issue for a few days, weighing pros and cons. It would be so easy to forget the entire thing and go back to living and working and the cycle of things, but every time he had almost convinced himself to let it lie, he'd go to sleep and wake up sweating, panicked, and cold. That wasn't a way he could keep living, and this was his only way out.

He could arrange a private plane, and wouldn't stay more than a few days, if he found them at all. That was what he promised himself. He wouldn't take any more time than he absolutely needed. He wasn't sure what miracle cure he expected to find in Paris, but any hope was better than what he had going for him.

He resigned himself to go.


	3. Chapter III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "On se rappelle les chansons.  
> Un soir d'hiver, un frais visage,  
> La scène à marchands de marrons,  
> Une chambre au cinquième étage"
> 
> "A Paris" - Édith Piaf

_Paris._

Ariadne laughed at the jokes of the cashier as he put the fresh tubes of paint in a paper bag, only partially understanding his heavily-accented English, and she thanked him in her even less skilled French. The paint shop always made her feel alive in the mornings. It was something about the energy of the place. The colors seemed to have long since bled into the personalities of the old shopkeeper and his wife. It was picturesque.

Her bicycle was outside, leaning against a planter of lilies, not chained to anything. She didn't have to. Everyone in the neighborhood knew everyone else, and she was safe here. The shop's bell jingled as she exited through the door with the cracked green paint and set foot on the cobblestone street. The paints went into the basket with the newspaper and the new notebook she'd gotten down the street at Marie's.

_Paris._

She inhaled the morning as she rode. There was something almost fairytale-like about it. Maybe it was the smell of fresh baked goods that hung over the neighborhood in the cool morning air, or the ivy that spilled over the sides of brownstone buildings in great cascades.

She took her checklist from her pocket to remember what she'd come for. There was the usual stuff: supplies and canvas she'd just picked up, and the week's groceries and coffee. They seemed to go through coffee like paper, and neither was scarce here. The groceries could be purchased later. They had to be, she reminded herself.

Eames had advised her not to be too routine, which was hard. They'd fallen into a rhythm since moving in, and now they had to break it, all because Eames swore they were being watched.

Ariadne might have complained or teased him for being paranoid, but he wasn't that kind of person, which made it all the more serious. Three times, he said, he'd seen someone carefully observing him. The same man every time. An ordinary person might have missed him, but Eames was trained for this kind of thing.

Now they had to be careful. Even more so than before. If someone was watching them, it wasn't someone new. It was someone from the not-too-distant past.

People didn't watch starving artists.

People watched extractors.

Maybe it was the contagious paranoia, but Ariadne sometimes thought she saw someone watching her as well. She started taking shortcuts, shortening her morning rides, and not going out late at night to sketch. She trusted the city and her neighbors, but she couldn't be too careful.

Now, more than ever, she was grateful not to be living alone anymore. Eames was help with the room and board, and now there would be someone to notice if she disappeared one day without a trace. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement.

She didn't pause, as she usually did, to sketch buildings in charcoal or grab a coffee. She rode straight home and tied the bike up outside the large, brick apartment building. Seven ancient floors of studios and wrought-iron railings, and sloping roof tiles that caught more rain than they ran off. She marched straight up the perilous, steep stairs that loudly announced every movement, paper bag on her hip, and unlocked the door.

"It's me," she announced as she entered. They hadn't used to announce their presence to one another, but it was a precaution.

There were shoes by the door, and there was tea on. Eames had still been asleep when she'd left--they were both prone to pulling late-night art sessions--but now he was reclining on the sofa, half paying attention to the news and half buried in a sketchbook, charcoal dust staining his hands.

"See anything?" he asked, and she knew he really meant anyone.

"No one we don't already know." She shrugged off her sweater and scarf, hanging them both on the rack by the door, and giving it a final push with her shoulder until the relic of a lock clicked into place.

"How was the store?"

"M. Ardoin says hello."

She tossed the paper bag of paints through the air, catching him off-guard as they landed squarely in his lap. He opened the package and examined the tubes.

"No umber?" Eames faked horror.

"They're fresh out, but Mrs. Ardoin says they're getting another shipment in a couple days."

"Did you get an exact date on that?"

Ariadne shrugged, then fell into an impersonation of the lady shopkeeper's easygoing, nonchalant manner, rolling her eyes and making bored, incredulous faces. "It is maybe... Tuesday? Maybe Wednesday? Maybe... uh... next year? Does it matter? We don't rush the paints."

Eames laughed. "Oh well. It's not like anyone's paying me for this one."

The portrait was their downstairs neighbor's niece, a gift for a birthday, and it was a favor. Mrs. Montblanc had been difficult enough to get to know, and wasn't the most welcoming woman in the world, but they were grateful to have her keeping a watchful eye over their apartment. It had been Eames's idea to befriend her after he noticed that she was a professional gossip. She talked enough about the two of them, mostly asking if they were a secret elopement, but she also talked _to_ them.

Actually, it had been Mrs. Montblanc who had noticed that they were being watched the first time, when she marched upstairs in her slippers to tell them about the strange man in the jacket and hat who had come to the building and watched people come and go for three hours. Eames had politely requested that she keep them informed, and had promised the portrait.

She hadn't seen anything since, but Eames said he'd seen the man matching the description she'd given. The man had followed him through the gallery downtown. The man was too casual to be Interpol, but too nicely-dressed to be anything less.

Ariadne got the tea out of the cupboard, and as she did, she said, "Maybe we should just find another apartment."

It had been weeks of this unease, and she didn't like it. It wasn't good for her studies.

"What makes you say that?"

"I feel trapped." She slammed the cupboard. "Like a damn fish in a bowl. I need to get out of here."

"Maybe we should go into the city tomorrow," Eames suggested. "We can take the train and do some sketches. It'll be good to shake up the routine a little bit. Throw them off the scent."

"I don't want there to be a _them_ in the picture at all."

He gave her a patient but warning smile as he rose to open the windows.

"Fine." She rolled her eyes. "How long do you want to keep living like this? Like a zoo animal? Give me an estimate."

" _It is maybe... Tuesday? Maybe Wednesday? Maybe... uh... next year?"_ He said, parroting her impersonation, getting a sharp glare in return. "Look, I just want to keep our shadow around long enough to find out who's casting him. This could all just be a misunderstanding, love."

"Yeah, right."

"Running seems safer, but it would be stupid. If he's got a powerful benefactor, they'll just find us again. I say we hold our ground and wait to see. Something has to come out of this. Whether that's a tax collector or a James Bond villain, we'll wait and see. I don't like it any more than you do, but we can't fight what we don't know."

There was a stack of old records in the corner. Ariadne had found a player at a street antique market and insisted that they take it. Their landlady had generously offered some of her late husbands favorites when she cleaned house. Now they had a sizeable collection, and with the help of an online tutorial, they'd assembled a shelf to hold them. Some of them, they played quite often. Classics, like Brigitte Bardot and Françoise Hardy were among the favorites, and Eames was partial to The Smiths. Then, there were some more modern additions Ariadne had found online. Hozier. Caravan Palace. Indila.

Their landlady's late husband was a devoted fan of Édith Piaf. Those albums were more for decoration than anything, to avoid unpleasantness.

"So we'll wait," sighed Ariadne.

"We'll wait."

"I hate waiting."

Eames smiled, tipping back the tea cup with the chipped handle. "You'd think we'd be used to it by now, huh?"


End file.
